


you're there, you're too much

by weezzzer



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Chronological, M/M, Season 3, Violence, fucking feelings, pre-episode 6, sad boy kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 12:37:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2652311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weezzzer/pseuds/weezzzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ian explodes into his life like a volcano. he scares mickey, more than anything, fuck, more than terry.</p><p>-<br/>mickey gets pistol-whipped a lot</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're there, you're too much

**Author's Note:**

> mickey/ian is real good shit. i love writing from mickey's perspective; he's so fucked up, in a good way. the writers of shameless deserve artistic credentials or whatever they give to people who write for complex characters. noel fisher, you bloody bastard; i love you.

mickey gets pistol-whipped the first time when he's thirteen, after a bad drugs run up in the north side. the sun's blinding hot and white outside when his dad pulls out his gun, leering madly. the heat's dripping along the slim line of his back, as sticky as the blood running along his eyebrows and the crevice between his eyelid when he's laying crooked on the hot asphalt.  
  
iggy drags him away from his dad, dumps him on his little bed and switches off the light. mickey doesn't cry, just listens to the front door slam shut and the fridge whir in the kitchen in the leftover silence. he's not fucked up too bad, he thinks, rolling up in his sheets until he's too hot to actually get some sleep.  
  
mandy stays silent when she sees him, curled up in his bed. she climbs up behind him all crumby cotton pyjamas and breathes hot and sleepy dry against his neck until mickey rolls her over and goes to have a piss.  
  
the blood's all over his sheets in the morning, thick across his eyelids so in the reddish light of sunrise he can barely open his eyes. even after a shower the smell of copper underneath his nails makes him retch.  
  
~  
  
his dad's in the living room watching CBS the second time; drunk on the case of rolling rock that mickey stole from kash and grab last wednesday.  
  
he's gets angry, spectacularly. like all the anger's dispersing from the bottom of his stomach in one malicious rant. terry takes his time wrenching himself from the couch, lighting a cigarette and sucking so hard the bud burns cherry red. mickey's sixteen year old lungs could have already gotten him a hundred metres past the underpass when he gets blown backwards against the wall and spat on.  
  
mandy wipes off the blood with a dirty dish cloth. mickey's freezing in their tiny bathroom, the walls beating inside of his head. he feels sick, feels tired, too _exhausted_ to even tell mandy she looks like a slut.  
  
"dad'll forget it in the morning right," mickey doesn't even want to think about what she's saying; but terry always manages to sneak into mandy's bed after he's gotten ridiculously riled up about something. mainly it's mickey's fault.  
  
mickey huffs out a soft breath as mandy presses a little too hard against the skin above his eyelid. he says nothing, but the look in his eyes makes mandy feel a little scared: determined and angry.  
  
"I'm not stupid, dickwad," he reassures her then, feeling a little bit more like the big brother he's supposed to be rather than what he probably is. mandy pauses, looks down at him, nods, then swiftly kicks him in the ankle. she gets it.  
  
when mandy finishes cleaning him up she's shaking though, skinny bones almost rattling; mickey thinks she's being stupid. dad's comatose on the sofa, iggy's fucked off somewhere-- he pulls her into a hug, breathes into skin of her throat; she even smells like mum and mickey almost cries with it.  
  
~  
  
ian explodes into his life like a volcano. he scares mickey, more than anything, fuck, more than terry. he has this stupid orange hair, and stupidly endearing freckles and mickey should want to fall in love with him, should want to shove him into the door of his bedroom and kiss him until his brain shatters into pieces, until it feels like getting pistol-whipped a thousand times. except, he pussy's out.  
  
~  
  
"ey, has frank ever pistol whipped you?" mickey's lighting a cigarette and his arse is nice and sore but ian still looks at him weird when he asks him.  
  
"no, frank... frank's always fucking drunk." ian says it with such conviction it's almost an explanation in itself, except, it's just not; because  frank's always so fucking drunk so he'd probably only go real batshit if he was sober.  
  
"so's terry," mickey says back, passing him the cigarette. ian looks at mickey's fingers for a second then at his lips and something shoots up mickey's spine. mickey looks away, feeling like he's falling down a pitfall; butterflies and _shit_ he's such a girl.  
  
"no, I haven't. stupid asking you what it feels like though," ian finally says and mickey wants to know if he feels like he's falling too.  
  
mickey laughs instead. it hurts, obviously. but as ian sucks on his cigarette, looks at the sky then back at mickey grinning madly and moving to his knees; mickey wishes it'd hurt even more so his brain would stop fucking him up. stop making him feel something he doesn't need to feel.  
  
~  
  
when his dad pistol-whips him the fourth time, ian's face burns through his brain. he wants to kiss him so badly.  
  
~  
  
it's not even impulse that turns him back towards the van. not even bravery, because, shit, mickey's tough, but he'll never be proud. it's something else, something he's never felt before. maybe want.  
  
ever since he was little and scrawny, with his dad shooting up on the kitchen counter, his ma shutting herself in the bedroom and mandy screaming her little lungs to pieces; he's known need from want. you need food in your belly, you need a gun pressing against the base of your spine, you need money at the bottom of your shoe.  
  
but this feels different from need. the dry press of ian's lips against his own makes something burn deep in his brain, makes his cheeks turn hot, makes his cock fill out ever so slightly. the burning grows when he turns back, finger up, halfway across some old lady's yard and sees ian's face; stupid crooked smile, stupid orange hair. stupid, stupid want.  
  
~  
  
mickey doesn't know what love feels like. he guesses it's like tumbling down a hill at a hundred miles a minute in torrential rain, like being continually plunged into freezing water, like laying back at midnight underneath the L with it cracking and spitting every time it flies above. ian is opposite him, on top of him, all around him; _kissing him_ and the world is shaking like an earthquake and he's fucking falling in love.  
  
~  
  
every time ian kisses him it's like he's being pistol-whipped with love; the analogies shit, he knows. but he gets blown backwards and sideways and the world blurs and focuses and it's such a mix of emotion and stuff and everything implodes and. well, he can't explain it. but mickey's so in love.


End file.
